


Smile in the Dark

by ButterflyGhost



Series: City on a Hill [1]
Category: Zombies Run!
Genre: Gender-Neutral Runner Five, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 12:55:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8490652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ButterflyGhost/pseuds/ButterflyGhost
Summary: Maybe Sarah's looking for comfort.





	

 

Sarah does not come to me as often as I’d like. When she does it is in the night – not because she is ashamed of me, or trying to keep it a secret. She is a private person, that’s all. It wouldn’t have mattered in any case. Everyone knew the first time she kissed me, although I could have sworn there was nobody there. She didn’t care who knew. “Sorry, Five. The cat’s out of the bag,” she said, with a wry lift of an eyebrow, “you can’t keep any secrets here.”  
  
  
  
She isn’t often wrong about things, but she’s mistaken in this. Everyone in Abel has secrets of one sort or other. Some of them are huge, like who you loved, who turned, who you had to kill, who tried to kill you. Those memories are too big to touch; the mind shies away from them. The more painful memories are smaller, tiny little bubbles of memory from Before. We all have a thousand of these.  
  
  
  
Sarah has whispered some of them to me in the night. Her eldest son's first communion; he had insisted on a real bow tie. It remained unsaid that her youngest didn't live long enough for his communion. She told me about her Granny's initial horror that she was engaged to an Englishman. And then she related how, at the wedding, the same Granny ‘fell for his charms like a tree in a storm.’  
  
  
  
Shy, I offer her some of my own little secrets.  
  
  
  
There was a bright red flower when I was a child. I remember the silk of the petals, how smooth they were, the astonishing scent. I ate a petal, and it tasted of nothing. I remember a thorn piercing my thumb and that I didn’t cry because my blood was the exact same colour as this first remembered rose. Later I do remember crying. I was chewing on a crayon when I realised that it was the wrong red. Even when I smudged my bloody thumb on the page, the colour dried and changed. I was six when I learned that it is impossible to truly draw a rose.  
  
  
  
What else? I tell her about my mother’s hair and how much I wished that mine could be exactly like hers. I remember her dancing at the sink as she chopped vegetables. I remember that her face was smooth, but her hands were rough. She told me stories and sang songs, but although I remember the stories and the songs I do not remember her voice.  
  
  
  
It used to hurt me that I’d lost her voice when she died – what kind of child couldn’t remember their mother’s voice? But I understand it. After all, I was so young when she died, and it was such a long time ago. These days I tell myself that I am glad she died before the world ended. Even so; when I dream of her my mother smiles but is always silent. I do not tell Sarah that.  
  
  
  
Everyone has such memories. They are not, in themselves, special. And yet we hug our memories to us, hoard them up like the luxuries they are. Even my name is a luxury that I am reluctant to share. Not that it’s a secret, of course, but because it hurts too much to hear others say it. The ones who said it Before are all gone. My name is a dead weight on my heart. Sam respects that, as do Janine and Maxine. The rest follow their example. I am simply Five, Runner Five. I am as happy with that designation as I can be.  
  
  
  
Sarah can call me by my name, though. The first time we did more than kiss I had my arms around her. My head was buried in her hair, and I mouthed the smooth sweep of her throat where it met the curve to her shoulders. She turned her head and nipped my ear, then soothed it with her tongue. My heart lurched when she spoke my name, but for the first time, it was a sweet hurt. She alone can name me. That is one of those memories that I horde. Her lips on my face, the stink of her sweat. We both stank. We’d run for miles through zombie territory – it doesn’t even matter now what the mission was. I’m not sure I remember. What I do remember is that we’d stumbled through brambles at one point – roses, maybe, or blackberries. When I looked down my blood was red. I grinned at my torn shins, thinking of a long ago rose, then caught Sarah's eyes and laughed. “Damn,” she said, “just what we need.” Then she laughed too and grabbed my hand, urging me to run faster. “Feels good.” She was ahead of me, but I could hear her smile. “If it hurts we’re alive.”  
  
  
  
When Sam raised the gates, we were herded straight into quarantine. We were the only two confined that time. We stripped and presented ourselves for inspection, knowing that the cuts meant we’d be kept at least overnight. Maxine examined us and sighed at our injuries, left us with ointments, food, water, blankets and a change of clothing. We didn’t bother to get dressed again. We lay together for the first time as though it was the last. Later, Sarah followed me to my tent, or perhaps I followed her. She is usually the one who leads. It doesn’t matter in the end who led whom. What mattered was her hand in mine, hard and calloused, scratchy against my skin.  
  
  
  
Tonight Sarah comes to me on her terms, as pragmatic as ever. She knows that she has a place here, that I’ll always lift my blanket and let her curl up beside me, that I’ll always share what heat I have. Outside the rain starts up and the temperature is dropping. The tent rattles and flaps as the wind rises. She is warm against me, her breasts and belly soft for all her wiry strength. She smells of wood smoke and tastes of chestnuts. I had left before dinner was served. There is only so much squirrel stew that one can eat, with or without chestnuts. And perhaps she sensed that today was one of my heavy days. Perhaps she came to comfort me. Who knows? In the end, does it matter? I tug her towards me, settle my hands on the sharp ridge of her hips, and we kiss.  
  
  
  
Later she turns in the dark and rests her hand on my face. “You’re so damn quiet,” she says. “How come I’m always the one who talks?” I smile against her palm where she can feel it, and she pats my cheek. “See? I want a conversation and what do I get? A smile in the dark.” She snorts out an undignified laugh. “And they call me cryptic. You’ll know all my secrets soon. I’ve got to say something with you, just to fill up the silence.” There’s a cynical edge as she says it, but there is something behind the words. Something in the tone of her voice, as though she has a secret that she wishes she could share. There’s always been part of her that I cannot understand or touch.   
  
  
  
She sighs and shifts on the bedroll, pulls the blankets tight as she turns her back. I wrap my arms around her and pull her up against me. She doesn’t move away. Her breathing softens as she settles in my arms. I'd like to think she is looking for comfort too.

 

Maybe she’s just cold.

**Author's Note:**

> Hard to tag this one. Is it het or femmeslash? Guess it's up to you, reader. Choose your own adventure.


End file.
